Identity Unknown (A Parker & Coe, Love and Bullets Thriller Book 1) (7 page)

These boys really loved their bullets.

And I hated them. With a passion.
 

Especially when they were ricocheting around me.

"Come on! Come on!" Parker shouted. No point in being quiet now.

He flew through the darkness as if he could see where we were headed, and maybe he could. He had, after all, somehow risen from the dead. Maybe he had super powers, too.

He jerked me forward and we turned a corner and I now saw light—glorious light—at the end of the corridor. And for a brief moment I wondered if Parker hadn't risen after all.
 

Maybe
I
was dead, too.

Maybe I had never really recovered from Taggart's blow, and this was merely some fevered death dream I was experiencing as I passed through to the afterlife.

But as we got closer, I realized that what I saw was merely an open doorway with another pair of headlights shining into it. We heard more shouting behind us and Parker tightened his grip on my wrist and picked up speed. We plunged together through the doorway into a loading area where an ancient pickup truck stood, its engine running, its high-beams pointed in our direction.

"Get in!" Parker shouted, and didn't have to say it a second time.

I don't think I've ever moved so fast. Within milliseconds I jerked open the passenger door and dove inside as the shouts grew louder and guns started popping. I heard the clang of bullets against metal as Parker jumped behind the wheel and punched the accelerator.

I didn't dare sit upright. Instead, I hung onto the seat cushion for dear life as we flew backwards, spun halfway around, then rocketed forward at a speed that seemed impossible for a truck this old. Parker worked the wheel like a Nascar driver on his last lap, and all I could think about was whether I preferred to die in a fiery crash or a hail of gunfire—and it was a definite toss-up.

I chanced a peek through the rear window and saw the loading area receding from view, Taggart and three men with guns in their hands running after us. I recognized them from the train station.

They fired a few more shots, but we were too far away now for it to make a difference. Then they finally gave up and stopped in their tracks, and one of them bent forward, trying to catch his breath.

I could barely breathe myself. My pounding heart seemed to be squeezing my lungs.

I finally turned, sat upright, then grabbed the seatbelt and strapped myself in.

Parker said, "That was a lot closer than I expected. Are you okay?"

I'm sure this question was just a way to fill the silence, because how could anyone in my position possibly be okay? Surely he already knew the answer.

I looked over at him, saw the holes that Taggart's bullets had punched in his shirt and said, "How the hell are you even alive?"

Parker thumped his chest with the palm of his hand. "Kevlar. Never leave home without it."

"You're kidding me. A bullet proof vest? Those things actually work?"

"Better than ever," he said, then reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his cell phone, which was a mangled hunk of plastic, metal and glass. "My phone pitched in, too. I'm just grateful I didn't take one to the head."

"I can't believe Taggart shot you like that. He's crazy."

"You think?"

"He killed that poor desk clerk."

Parker nodded. "Sean Taggart is a sociopath. No two ways about it. Only he's very good at hiding it from the people around him. I should know. I worked with him for nearly two years."

"And he was married to your sister."

Parker swiveled his head toward me. "He told you that?"

"He likes to talk almost as much as he likes to kill. How did you know where to find us?"

"He's as predictable as I am. He's used that warehouse a time or two and since it was close by, I figured that's where he'd take you. He thought I was dead, so why not stick with what's familiar? I knew he wasn't in this alone."

I nodded. "That's twice now."

"Twice what?"

"That you've saved my life."

He shrugged. "It's probably closer to three or four, but who's counting? I need that bounty."

"I told you, I'm
not—
"

"Yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah—just be happy I didn't put the cuffs back on you." He checked his rearview mirror. "And if you think this is the last we've seen of Sean Taggart and his buddies in the SUV, think again. They'll keep looking for us."

"So what do we do?"

"The first order of business is to ditch this truck."

"Where did you get it?"

"It was parked near the motel office. I think it may have belonged to the desk clerk. But we can't go back there. We'll have to dump it somewhere else and head out on foot."

"And then what?"

"Same as before. Find a place to hole up until morning."

"Another motel from hell?"

Parker shook his head. "They'll be checking all the motels. We'll have to camp out in an alleyway or something."

"An alleyway?"

"Don't worry, I'll find you a couple cardboard boxes to sleep on."

"I see getting shot hasn't made you any less of a jerk. I hope you realize that while you're wasting all this time on me, the real Mia Duncan is out there somewhere, getting away with murder."

"Jesus, do you ever give up?"

"No, because it's the truth. And you must be starting to believe me. You just don't want to admit it."

He frowned. "Believe you?"

"You said it yourself—I'm lucky you haven't cuffed me. So why haven't you? Taggart took your gun and I'm within neck snapping distance. Why doesn't that make you nervous?"

He jerked his gaze in my direction. "Don't get any ideas, because you
will
regret it."

"The reason you haven't is because some small part of you is figuring it out. You've spent enough time with me now to know that I'm
not
a killer. It's not part of my DNA. I'm not like Taggart and those men he's working for. The closest I've ever come to a gun before this is bad movie night at the campus student center."

"Like I said, tell it to the judge."

"I'm telling it to
you
. And if you think hauling me into a courthouse is gonna get you that reward, I hope you don't need the money too badly, because you're about to be disappointed."

He was looking at me again and I saw the doubt in his eyes.

"Emily Finn set me up," I said. "She made friends with me, borrowed my car and deliberately left it near the crime scene, all because we look like sisters. She must've known she'd have the Ukrainian mafia after her, and I'm her escape clause."

"Look," he said. "The tip I got led me straight to you, not some fantasy figure named Emily Finn."

"And who gave you that tip?"

"A detective at the Houston PD."

"Man or woman?"

"A woman. I worked a case with her a couple years back."

"And did she give you this tip in person or on the phone?"

"The phone," he said.

"So how can you be sure it was even her? Especially after two years? What if it was Mia Duncan
pretending
to be her? And what if she didn't call just you, but Taggart and the FBI and everyone else who might be looking for her? Don't you get it? I'm a diversion. A delaying tactic."

"Oh, come on, that's pretty farfetched. And even if what you're saying is true, and the real Duncan is out there somewhere, what difference does it make? Except for that surveillance photo, nobody even knows what she looks like."

"Nobody?"

"She's a phantom. Uses intermediaries to arrange all her hits."

"I think you're forgetting something," I said.

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"
I
know what she looks like. And so will you, if we can find a computer."

"This would be a lot easier," I said, "if one of us had a phone."

Parker shot me a look. "You registered that complaint five minutes ago."

We were on foot now, having left the truck parked three blocks over in front of an auto body shop. We were close to Hunter City University and headed in that direction.

"Yeah, well, if you hadn't been in such a hurry to get me off that bus, I'd still have my purse and—"

"You registered that one, too," Parker said. "Have you ever heard of a little concept called
move on
?"

"You don't have to be nasty about it."

"This is your idea, remember? I'm still not convinced you aren't gonna try to kill me the first time I turn my back on you."

I rolled my eyes. Talk about moving on.

"Not that I'm trying to wound your pride," I said, "but if I really
were
Mia Duncan, I have a feeling you'd be dead by now. For real."

"You think so, huh?"

"You forget that Emily was a friend of mine. At least I thought she was."

"So you've said."

"It's the truth. And we may be semi-doppelgangers, but the one thing she has that I don't is muscle. You should see her arms. That Zumba class isn't her only form of exercise, and I'm pretty sure she would've taken you down on that bus the moment you tried to put the cuffs on her."

Parker shot me another look. "I was a U.S. Marshal for three years, and that gave me enough field experience to learn how to deal with perps—female, musclebound, or. . ."

He swiveled his head suddenly, looking toward the street, then grabbed hold of me and pulled me into the shadows of an alleyway. I was about to protest when he shushed me, and seconds later I heard the rumble of an engine and saw something I had hoped I'd never see again:

Taggart's patrol car.

Parker pinned me against the wall with his body, holding me there in the darkness until the cruiser rolled past. When it was gone, we both let out relieved breaths, then Parker pulled me toward the rear of the alley into a pool of moonlight behind two Dumpsters. A moment later he was manhandling me again, sticking his hands into the pockets of my pants.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?"

"Hold still." He kept rummaging around, not finding what he was looking for, then said, "Take off your clothes."

I gaped at him. "What?"

"Do it. Now."

"Are you out of your freaking—"

"Taggart planted a tracker on you. I'm not sure how sophisticated it is, but he couldn't have found us this fast without one. He's got a signal and he knows we're around here somewhere. Trust me."

"But he had me cuffed. Why would he plant a tracker on me?"

"Because he's a professional and he's smart enough to prepare for contingencies. Now take off your clothes or I'll take them off for you. We need to find that thing and we don't have much time."

I just stared at him. There was enough moonlight streaming into the alleyway that he wouldn't have any trouble seeing me in all my glory—mismatched underwear and all. But as much as I hated to admit it, he was right. If that asshole Taggart had planted a tracker on me, we needed to find it.

"Come on, come on," Parker said. "Don't think, just do."

I was wearing what I always wear to work—a pants suit that would need to be dumped if I somehow managed to get out of this alive. I pulled off my jacket, handed it to him, and started unbuttoning my blouse.

"Faster," he said, inspecting the jacket. "He's probably circling the block as we speak."

I picked up speed, got the blouse off, and Parker checked the collar and cuffs as I unzipped my pants and stepped out of them. He took them from me, and had the decency not to stare.

Unfortunately, it didn't last. After finding nothing hidden in the pant legs, he looked up, his gaze falling directly on my bra and thong.

"Those, too," he said.

"Unh-uh, no way."

"What're we in high school? I need to check them out."

"Do what you've gotta do, but I'd like to keep at least
some
of my dignity. I'm not taking them off."

A car approached and we both froze, relieved as it continued past the mouth of the alley. When it was gone, Parker gestured to my underwear and said, "On or off, I need to inspect them."

"They aren't coming off."

"It's not like you've got anything I haven't seen before."

"You haven't seen
me
, and I'd like to keep it that way."

At least until we know each other better
, I thought, and then cursed myself for thinking it. What the hell was wrong with me?

"All right," he said and reached forward. "Don't say I didn't warn you. Hold still."

He brought a hand up to my left shoulder and slipped a couple fingers under the bra strap, checking for a foreign object. It occurred to me I probably could have done this myself, but I had no idea what a tracker looked or felt like.

He worked his way down the strap, stopping just as he reached the swell of my left breast, then shifted his hand to the right strap and repeated the process.

He found nothing.

He gently spun me around and checked the straps in back, then ran his fingers under the fastener—and don't ask me why, but I was suddenly transported to junior high and the night Mark Bigelow fumbled to unhook me as we did the tongue tango.

Back in the present, Parker was still empty handed. He spun me around again, gestured toward my bra and said, "This really would be easier if you took that thing off."

I sighed and finally gave in. "Oh, for godsakes…"
 

I quickly unhooked, shrugged out of the bra and handed it to him, covering myself with my arms before he noticed that the friction and the night air had done what they tended to do. He again had the decency not to stare and instead concentrated on the bra cups, once again coming up empty.

He looked down at my thong now and I shook my head. "Forget it. Not gonna happen. Tell me what I'm looking for and I'll do it myself."

"A piece of metal or plastic about the size of a dime or even smaller, probably fastened to the fabric with a small piece of tape."

"All right," I said. "Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn around. I'm not gonna go digging in my underwear with you standing there watching. I've already been humiliated enough. Oh, and give me my bra back."